Under Surveillance
by Imogene the Dancing Cow
Summary: "Are you sure it'll hold, Santana? The recorder might be a little big for your underboob." She really should have listened to the recording before she decided to play it for the glee club. 3x11.


Santana impatiently waited at the choir room door, shuffling a confused glee club in. As they rushed to their seats, she locked the door and turned around, bouncing on her toes in anticipation.

"What's going on?" Rachel asked.

Santana sauntered forward, ready to impress. _James Bond ain't got nothing on me._ "We've got the Warblers right where we want them. And because he's the smoothest criminal I know, Artie was able to find a spy store that sells top secret surveillance equipment."

"Not top secret. I just got a tape recorder from Office Max," Artie clarified.

"Okay, okay, whatever," she said, waving her hand dismissively. "In any case, I taped it to my underboob when we went to Dalton, and I got Sebastian on tape admitting that there was rock salt in that slushie that blinded Blaine. Now all we have to do is send this tape to the po-po and that little bitch is headed to juvie."

Lifting her arm straight ahead and looking like the cat that ate the warbler, Santana pressed play.

But she did not hear the hard-won sound of Douchey McFerretFace confessing to his crime.

Instead, there was only rustling, and then a bright voice. A very familiar bright voice. "Are you sure it'll hold, Santana? The recorder might be a little big for your underboob." Santana's eyes widened, her smirk melting into a slack jawed gape.

_Oh. Oh, shit. _She probably should have listened to the recording first.

Frozen with uncertainty, all she could do was listen as her own gravelly voice spoke up. "It'll hold." There was a pause and then with a flirty, playful tone, the voice continued, "Besides, I thought my underboobs were more than enough for you, Britt-Britt."

_Oh. My. God._

Eyes almost popping out of her head, she jerked into action, finally able to regain some control over her muscles. Unfortunately, they weren't the kind of muscles that produced smooth, graceful gestures. She flailed, desperately trying to turn off the recorder. But because the universe was a heinous bitch that clearly had it out for her, she clumsily knocked it out of her hand, and it slide across the ground towards the other side of the choir room where everyone was seated.

_Please, Jesus, Mary, Joseph, Amy, Adele. Please let it be broken. Please, please, please._

"They totally are. I think your underboobs are perfect, Santana. Your upperboobs and sideboobs too."

_Goddammit! _It was decidedly unbroken.

She cursed life, the universe, and everything. Especially Office Max. What the hell? Her dad once bought a printer there that died within the week, but the cheap ass recording shit Artie bought could survive being launched across a freaking room and smashed onto the floor?

"Hm." There was a sniff of mock offense, but then Santana's recorded voice deepened, smoldering and silky, as she seductively asked, "Well then, why don't you show me how perfect you think they are?"

_Nononono! Not sexy bedroom voice! Not sexy bedroom voice!_

Santana leaped forward, lunging onto the floor. Dragging herself across the ground, she dropped over the recorder like a solider throwing himself over a grenade to protect his comrades. And, dammit, she _was_ protecting her comrades. Protecting them from sexy, sexy shrapnel. Still, her body failed to mask the wet, popping sound and throaty, _very_ appreciative, straight-out-of-a-porn moan that the irredeemably demonic recorder was broadcasting to the room.

"Nngh. God, Britt, you—"

With a horrified squeak, she scrambled her hands under her stomach and grabbed it. Finally! Finally, she managed to shut the bastard thing off. She raised herself off the ground, keeping her eyes averted from the group sitting right in front of her. Steeling herself with a deep breath, she looked up.

The gays and most of the girls were shocked, jaws hanging low and eyes wide. Rachel looked outright appalled, mouth gaping wide enough to swallow a toddler's head and nostrils flaring unattractively, and Jesus Christ, who knew her schnoz could look even bigger? _Bet she didn't know a woman could produce such a satisfied sound since her only sexual experience is Moby Dick drilling her._ Quinn looked bored and unimpressed, and it suddenly made a whole lot of sense why she came up with any excuse to avoid their Unholy Trinity sleepovers. _Guess she wasn't always asleep like we thought. Oops. What a perv, though._

All the straight males looked like they had seen the face of God, if God was a sexy lesbian macking on a haloed hottie. Puck was outright leering, unfortunately fairly familiar with some of her sexy sounds, and dammit, what the hell was she ever thinking with that asshole? Gross. He turned his leer towards Brittany, and oh, _hell _no. He was going to die a slow, painful death that would start with his balls being ripped off and mailed back home to him. Finn too. Because fuck him and his stupid, gassy baby face.

If she hadn't been completely horrified and utterly embarrassed (and sort of actually really totally turned on because _damn_, that sounded fucking hot and now all she could think about was the way Brittany put that insanely long, insanely talented tongue of hers to good use), she might have been amused at what she saw. But not with those looks turned on her. Rather than react with amusement, Santana was just thankful nobody could see her blush.

"I don't know how, uh… just… yeah, give me a moment to find the right part of the tape…" she stuttered, breathless.

Brittany just smirked.


End file.
